After Hours
by D McVetty
Summary: Kyle, Gregory, and Christophe have been running jobs together for years. Living in Detroit with Cartman, Kyle promises to be safe on his next job. When he comes back broken and bloody, the ends unravel to reveal a deeper secret than he could have imagind
1. The Beginning

**title ; **After Hours

**chapter ;** The Beginning

**characters ; **Kyle, Christophe

**setting ; **After High School in Detroit, MI

**rating ; **T for swearing, sex references, violence, and general South-Park-ness

**disclaimer ; **I quite obviously do not own South Park or its characters

**disclaimer 2 ;** I do own what is written here, so please don't steal it

**author's note ; **Despite the strange start, this _is_ a Kyle x Cartman story. The first chapter is incredibly short, but it is just an introduction. Set after High School, Kyle has taken a few jobs from Mole, aka Christophe, and moved to Detroit with the Mercenary. Cartman followed shortly after, getting an apartment with Kyle. Past that, you'll have to read for yourself. Obligatory _'please review cuz it'll mean the world to me and if you don't review my grandma wont love me anymore' _statement.

* * *

Blood dripped wildly, splashing across cracks in grey concrete, seeping into water-starved gravel. Pain exploded in the back of his head, knees crashed to the bloodied pavement. Laughter echoed off sturdy brick walls, jibes and shouts of _"faggot" _ripped through his ears. Collapsing to the ground face-first, he lay still as blackness overtook him.

Somewhere in the darkness, the voices around him laughed, their faceless hands grabbing at him, their steel-toed boots finding a nice home between his ribs. Pain melted away, floating him into oblivion as he tried to block out the terror the only way he knew how. The faceless fists suddenly disappeared, the laughter turned to angry shouts.

Another voice, familiar this time, echoed. The anger and disappointment dripped heavily from the string of colorful French curses. The sound of fists colliding with flesh accented the grunts and cries of pain. Scampering away, the assailants shouted obscenities, cursing about the _"damn French" _as they fled.

A shadow fell over his face. Cracking an emerald green eye open through a dark bruise that had formed, he lifted his lip in a half-hearted grin.

Shaking his head, the mercenary blew smoke out his parted lips. "You are ze sorriest piece of _sheet_ in ze world."


	2. The Return

**title ; **After Hours

**chapter ;** The Return

**characters ; **Kyle, Christophe, Cartman

**setting ; **After High School in Detroit, MI

**rating ; **T for swearing, sex references, violence, and general South-Park-ness

**disclaimer ; **I quite obviously do not own South Park or its characters

**disclaimer 2 ;** I do own what is written here, so please don't steal it

**author's note ;** Quick update - the first chapter was quite short and I couldn't leave anyone hanging for too long. Should be uploading the third and fourth chapter in the next few days. Then the final fifth chapter, and the story shall come to a very interesting end. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

_Ding.... Ding.... Ding...._

Striking three, the clock went silent again, the stillness settling as the soft ticking filled the air. Sitting at the table, Cartman held a cold cup of coffee in his hands, staring out the front window. Shifting, the chair creaked beneath his weight. He'd managed to shed quite a few pounds since leaving South Park, but by no means was he thin and athletic. Few people cared anymore. He worked in a kitchen at a fancy restaurant, and no one bothered to ask the dish boy anything. They simply expected him to do his job, do it well, and leave without eating anything for free.

Kyle was late.

The only conceivable reason Eric Cartman would be awake at three in the morning on a Monday night - or was it Tuesday? - was simply that.

Kyle was _late._

The Jew had impeccable timing. Never late to a single thing, always a few minutes early. Except the time he had been stuck in traffic and had called an hour early to inform Cartman of the minor altercation. He had still arrived five minutes early. Today was different. This late into the wee hours of morning felt wrong.

A knock on their shared apartment confirmed that feeling.

Pushing the chair out, he stood up, pushing the coffee cup into the center of the table. Hearing another impatient knock, he grit his teeth. "I'm coming, you impatient bastard!" he shouted angrily, louder than he needed to, voice cracking with his dwindling nerves.

"Open ze fucking door!"

Freezing midway to the mudroom, Cartman realized something was wrong. Far more wrong than he could have ever imagined. He didn't give two shits about _'liberating ze fucking Americans from zeir oppressive government'_ or whatever nonsense Mole spewed. He didn't pay attention to the things Kyle did, because that was Kyle's business. Despite their budding intimate relationship, the emotional part hadn't kicked in quite yet. Cartman lived his life, went to work, and came home to play WoW and order pizza. Not much had really changed since High School.

Except the very real possibility of Kyle's death, looming over them like a titan.

Unlocking the deadbolt, Cartman threw open the door, face already ashen at the thoughts running through his head.

Standing on the step, shovel strapped to his back, hair messy and disheveled, Mole held Kyle in his muscular arms. Once the door was opened, he shoved his way inside, taking care not to bump Kyle. "Make sure no one followed us," he ordered.

Cartman watched, dimly aware of the order. Kyle's face, smeared in blood, was pale white. His body remained limp, probably cold to the touch. Then he was gone, Mole rounding the corner to the livingroom. Cartman looked outside, peering into the darkness for a moment before slamming the door and locking it three different ways.

"Ees zer clean towels in ze bathroom?" Mole called out from the living room.

"Sure," Cartman said dully, standing in the doorway.

"Eet ees a _yes or no_ question, fat ass."

"Shut up, you British pile of shit."

"Watch him."

Cartman rolled his eyes, stepping into the room as Mole walked out, rummaging through every door to find the bathroom. Instead of pointing it out to him, Cartman looked down at Kyle. A black eye, a broken nose, bloody teeth, gravel pressed into his cheeks. Squatting next to the couch, Cartman pushed a strand of curly Jew fro out of Kyle's face, smudging a spot of blood with his thumb. Confusion mingled with distress as the biggest asshole of South Park watched his former victim's ragged breathing.

Sure, Cartman had taken a lot out on Kyle. His frustrations over his mother, his sexuality, his inferiority complex... But over the years, he had claimed Kyle in a weird way. When anyone else pointed out flaws or said cruel things to the red-head, Cartman jumped in to defend him. No one could pick on Kyle but Cartman, and that was just the way things worked.

Anger rose to the top of his emotion list. Mole stepped in, and Cartman was on his feet. "What the hell is this?" he demanded. "The little bastard said he was doing something simple!"

Mole looked at him, shook his head, and walked past, two towels in hand. Kneeling next to Kyle, he winced slightly before dabbing at the younger's face with the damp towel. Caked blood flaked off, revealing the pasty white skin beneath. There was no word between the two as Kyle was cleaned up. Dabbing the younger's eye, Mole was satisfied to see the Jew stir.

Groaning, Kyle opened his good eye, the other being far too swollen to move. Seeing familiar surroundings, his eyes fell on Mole. Recognition dawned and he opened his mouth to say something. A dull, hoarse croak came out, and he closed his mouth, an apologetic look in his emerald eye. Mole patted his shoulder lightly.

"If your little gay moment is over, I'd like some answers," Cartman said, crossing his arms.

Kyle seemed to perk up at the sound of Cartman's voice. Mole moved aside so the injured kid could see the man he, for some reason, loved. It was a one-way relationship, in that aspect, but it worked for Kyle. Seeing Cartman, Kyle's lips turned in a painful smile and he closed his eye, laying back against the couch.

Mole sighed. "I don't know what happened," he confessed. "I showed up too late to stop eet."

"What the fuck was going on?" Cartman demanded.

"Reconnisance. Notzhing out of ze ordinary."

"Then how did this happen?"

Mole sat on the floor, placing his back against the couch, taking care to ease his right leg onto the floor gently. Obviously, he hadn't gotten away clean either. Taking out a cigarette, he looked up at Cartman. "I told you," he answered, sticking the cigarette between his lips and lighting it with a swift flick of a match. Burning sulphur assailed his nose, keeping him awake. No telling what would happen now. If he fell asleep, he wouldn't be able to protect his personal hacker. Mole was all about protecting people important to him. And, so what, maybe he had grown attached to the kid who talked geek as a second language. It was a nice change.

Cartman eased himself into an arm chair, staring across the room. "Then what the hell do we do?" he asked snidely.

"Wait." Mole exhaled smoke. "Se what happens."

"Hos-"

"No hospitals. Zey have records."

"You're a paranoid fuck, you know that?"


	3. The Betrayal

**chapter ; **The Betrayal

**disclaimer 1 ; **I obviously don't own South Park.

**disclaimer 2 ;**I do own what is written here, so please don't steal it.

**author's note ; **Two more chapters to go, and it will all come into a grand finale! I'm excited to write this, but I don't have as much time as I would have wished. As most of my attention is centered on _All Mercenaries go to Hell_, most of the chapters in this story will be rather short and to the point. I do apologize if it seems like the chapters are thus lacking depth.

* * *

Cartman had fallen asleep hours before the crack of dawn, leaving Mole, awake and alone, with Kyle's broken body. Sitting with his back pressed against the couch, he itched for a cigarette. The wonderful calm of nicotine that rushed to his brain and told him all remained well in his world. A sick, twisted, demented little orb full of the screaming, dying masses. Women selling their souls for rent, men torturing other men for a warped view of their God. Religion clouding the nation like a toxic fog, wrapping sinners and evil in the protection of the all-mighty Vatican.

Breaking down, Mole pulled a thin cigarette from his inside breast pocket. Imports from France, the way he liked them. Fumbling for his lighter - a gift from his mother for his eighteenth birthday - he pulled the light blue zippo out, flicking it open. The tiny flame danced between his fingers, lighting the cigarette with ease. Inhaling deeply, flipping the lighter and stashing it in his pocket, he closed his eyes. For a moment, he needed his rest. Every nerve from his nose to his big toe tingled in adrenalin, hours after the brush with death.

One of them had managed to get a good hit in.

Rubbing his right leg, he winced as he felt the bruise already rampaging over his knee. The back of his head hurt fractionally compared to the pain of landing full force into the concrete, knee first. He hadn't counted on the third thug getting up as quick as he had. A mistake he wouldn't be making again. Kyle would be out of the game for weeks, if he pulled through in his current state. A little beating was good for anyone, but Kyle had been fragile to begin with.

Biting down on the cigarette, Mole growled under his breath. The entire situation had gone from bad to worse. Getting to his feet, he leaned over Kyle, putting a hand on the pale boy's shoulder. "I'll be right back," he said gruffly.

After a pause, he limped away, the bruise hindering his movement more than he would have liked. Pushing the front door open, he was greeted with a gust of fresh, crisp morning air. Not much different than South Park, not that he'd grown attached to that shit hole or anything. Christophe Moliere wasn't the type to become attached to anything, except the rare instance of Kyle, though it was strictly business.

Standing in the doorway, he let the wind take his smoke as it trailed out his mouth. There remained no sign of anyone following them the night before, despite Mole's blazing trail to the front door. He hadn't much of a choice, and he'd keep telling himself that as long as it took to shake the guilty feeling from his smoke-filled chest. Hearing someone yawn, he closed the door and returned to the livingroom, attempting to keep his leg from a limp at all costs.

Cartman jumped as Mole entered the room, swearing under his breath as he went back to caring for Kyle. Or as much care as the fatass could manage.

Mole walked in stiffly, motioning Cartman out of the way. "I'll take care of him," he said dryly.

"I can do it myself. You can go now," Cartman snapped, refusing to budge.

Mole grabbed the back of Cartman's shirt, heaving him to his feet with ease. Spinning him around, Mole pinned him against the wall, hand pressed into the fat boy's collarbone. "You will do as I say, _understand_?"

Cartman reached up quickly, attempting to catch Mole off guard, but his feeble shove against Mole's muscular arm did no good. "Get off me, you British faggot," he warned.

"Do you _understand?"_ Mole repeated darkly.

"No!" Cartman yelled. "No, I don't understand you! You're a fucking asshole to everything, and I fucking hate you, but Kyle fucking _adores _you!" he burst, anger dripping from his every word. "Then you go and get him in shit like _this_. You're a fucking hazzard, dude. You kill everything you _touch_."

Mole dropped Cartman, no emotion betrayed behind his dark chocolate eyes. Huffing, he blew smoke in Cartman's face. "Zen I will leave," he said, emotion drained from his fiery voice. "If you need me, ze number to ze motel ees on ze counter."

"We don't _need_ you," Cartman snarled. "You need us, you just cant see it."

Mole turned and walked away, that slight limp evident in his movements. Without a single pause, he left the apartment, closing the door softly behind him. He wouldn't relent to a moment of emotion by Cartman. The kid was practically emotionless, did things only for his own better good, but the second Kyle came into the picture, he would defend the Jew until his final breath. Mole didn't understand, and he was certain he never would. Some strange, fucked up relationship in high school had barely managed to evolve into a shared apartment and the occasional sexcapade.

Stopping around the corner, Mole leaned heavily against a wooden fence, catching his breath. Perhaps the thugs had gotten more than a single good hit on him, and it took until now for him to feel it. Spitting the butt of the cigarette onto the pavement, he reached for another as thick, heavy barking startled him off the fence. The barking, snarling beast came closer, pressing against the wooden fence and scratching. Cursing under his breath in colorful French phrases, Mole limped away, shakily readying his cigarette. "Fucking guard dogs," he muttered darkly.

Seething, he walked down the sidewalk, making a roundabout way to the alley behind Kyle and Cartman's apartment building. Despite the need for a good rest, he had things to take care of before taking _him_ time. Unfortunate, but also necessary. As he stepped onto the gravel of the alley, his phone chirped. A simple, single sound to alert him that he had a call. Irritated, he pulled it out, leaning on a solid brick garage to prevent dog-hazzards once again.

"Mole," he answered.

"Ah, there you are. I've been trying to find you all day."

"Uhn."

"You sound so enthused, Christophe. Do try to sound happier," Gregory said, the worry in his voice as fake as the rest of him. Except that damn accent, he was a fake, and Mole knew every detail.

"Speak." Mole grit out.

"Ah, of course. It seems intelligence has found a flaw in the system from last night. Computer software tracked to the passwords locked down, sounding alarms and _deleting_ all the data."

Mole didn't say anything. Silent, he brooded against the wall, smoke pulsing from his lips.

"Sorry, I forgot you don't know _computer talk_," Gregory said, tittering in that ridiculous way of his. "When your hacker _Kyle_ put in the password, it tripped the system, effectively costing us the job and the client."

Mole slammed his elbow into the brick wall, releasing fractions of his anger. "_Sheet. _Fucking _beetches._"

"Uh-huh," Gregory said, pausing. "Unfortunately, I must concede it was not young Kyle's fault. The password the Ukranian gave you was false."

Mole flipped the phone shut, fire blazing in his eyes as he tucked it away. "Ze fucking bastard," he growled. Keeping Kyle and Cartman's house under surveillance no longer mattered at this point. Knowing the Ukranian lied, and knowing it could have very well cost them their lives, Mole was not about to take it laying down, pants around his ankles, a bottle of empty lube next to him. "Ah, God, you play a good game," he said angrily, glancing up at the sky. "You fucking bastard cocksucker, I'm not about to let you fuck me in ze ass again."

...

Finding the Ukranian was the easy part, and Mole had spent the better half of the morning simply following the man through the slums of Detroit, shadowing him as skillfully as a bird floated on the breeze. Getting the man into a secluded place would be the challenge, as he constantly pulled people aside or chattered with shop owners. Twice, Mole thought he had him, only for the man to rush up to a shop owner, shaking his hand vigorously, proclaiming about _how long it's been_ and the other nonsense Westerners liked to hear. More than twice, perhaps close to several dozen times, Mole wanted to grab the bulky man by his ruffled collar and throw him into an alley, pounding the living daylights out of the man's Gucci glasses with his balled fists.

Every time, he dismissed the idea as too brash, even for himself.

Standing near a magazine stand, Mole flipped through one of the multi-page books absently, eyes on the man. Through his own dark sunglasses, the owner of the magazine stand couldn't see his eyes straying from the page, and came over to shoo him away.

"If you're not going to pay for it, then you're gonna have to leave!" he ordered, shaking a fist at the disgruntled mercenary.

"You're een my way," he stated darkly, snapping the book closed and staring over the top of the sunglasses at the short man.

As intimidating as Christophe could make himself look, he failed to realize most adults didn't take him as seriously as they should. He wore the clothing of a teenager and, by most accounts, looked like a disorderly bum. As a result, the man rolled his eyes. "You're scarin' the customers away. Now _get out of here,_ or I'll have to call the cops."

Mole leaned to the side, looking around the shopkeeper for the man he had shadowed. The Ukranian was _gone._ Cussing, Mole threw the book at the shorter man. "_Sheet!_ Fucking bastard!" Snarling under his breath, he pushed the man out of the way and began briskly walking, his sore leg slowing him down, attempting not to draw too much attention to himself. It was hard, as people cried out angrily when he pushed against them. His eyes roamed the street, he hardly had time for maneuvering himself between groups of people on the sidewalk.

In a gloriously heart-saving moment, he spotted the Ukranian's dirty hair as the man took a turn down an alley. Slowing his walk, he kept his eyes glued to the alley, his heart racing, palms sweating. Reaching back, he fingered the guitar case on his back. Carrying a shovel through downtown Detroit had drawn too much attention, so he had taken to hiding it inside the large case. He would have felt better if it were out and he could grip the handle, but it was too late for that now.

Rounding the corner, he came face to face with the Ukranian. Split-second thinking caused him to throw up his arms, blocking the punch, and then ducking to the side to slam his own fist into the Ukranian's side. The man doubled over in pain. People passed by the mouth of the alley, but in the shadows, in the dark corners of Detroit, the homeless-looking young adult fighting a dirty Ukranian probably seemed like a normal thing. No one stopped, no one called out _fight._

Mole liked it that way.

Slamming the guitar case down, he flipped it open and wrapped his hand around the shaft of the shovel. Nothing in the world felt as right as his calloused hand gripping that trusty handle, and he felt his heartbeat come under some kind of control. As the Ukranian realized he was outmatched, he cursed and fled down the alley. Mole chased him, combat boots pounding against the broken asphalt beneath his feet.

In his hurry to escape, the Ukranian tripped over a pile of trash, falling face-first into the pavement. He scrambled to his feet, falling twice before he started lurching forward. Surging with new energy, he grinned. Pain shot through his left side, and he grunted as he was sent to the ground. A boot pressed hard into his chest, the blade of a shovel pressed tightly against his throat.

"Time's up," Mole said darkly, pressing harder as the man struggled. "Answer ze questions, and you might _live_."

Gasping between pressure changes of the shovel, the Ukranian stared up at him defiantly. "What... the fuck.. Do you want?"

"I want ze password," Mole said, smiling darkly as he pressed the shovel down.

"G-gave it to you!" the man shouted, panicking.

"_Mon dieu,_" Mole said, shaking his head. "After all zis, you still want to lie to me?"

Struggling to say the words, the man said, "Seven.... four.... C-X nine-"

"Ze wrong password!" Mole shouted, moving the shovel aside, puling his leg back and kicking the man in the ribs. "Where ees ze real one?" Grabbing the man by his collar, Mole snatched his sunglasses off, tossing them aside. Heaving him to his feet, Mole shoved him roughly against the wall. "You have five seconds!"

"Th-the Brit told us-"

"Told you what? Who said eet?"

"Told us that password was the right one!"

For a moment, Mole didn't believe his ears.

For a moment, he let his guard down.

For a moment, he was completely and utterly vulnerable.

The man, seeing this, squirmed, kicking Mole as hard as he could in the stomach. As the mercenary let go, the Ukranian fell to his hands and knees, coughing as he scrabbled away like an abused mutt. Mole spat bile onto the pavement, grunting as he beared the renewed pain in his chest from the night before. Moving to the pathetic Ukranian, he kicked the man over. Rolling onto his side like a dog, the Ukranian covered his face with his arms. Mole put his boot on the man's throat.

"Who ze fuck said eet?" he asked darkly, the anger flashing behind his dark eyes.

"The fucking Brit! I don't know his name!" the man choked out.

Mole swung the shovel around, slamming it into the pavement. "But I do," he said quietly, taking his boot off the man's throat. Lifting the shovel, Mole smashed it into the man's face, spraying blood onto the pavement. The man's death gurgles reached his ears, but he took no pleasure in it. Not this time.

The betrayal stung him to the core.


	4. The Revalation

**chapter ; **The Revelation

**disclaimer 1 ; **I obviously don't own South Park.

**disclaimer 2 ;**I do own what is written here, so please don't steal it.

**author's note ; **Sorry it has taken so long for this chapter. I do hope it lives up to expectations. Beware of the Kyle x Cartman fluff for about ten seconds. In my mind, they're still somewhat mortal enemies rather than emotional lovers in this particular story. Reviews are much enjoyed, as it is much easier to write when I know people like how the story is going. Enjoy ~

* * *

Drumming steadily in the background, the clock seemed to keep the steady rhythm of Kyle's breathing in its very essence. Laying on the couch, thin frame covered in a blanket, the redhead seemed to finally be in a deep slumber. Perhaps in part due to Cartman sitting on the floor next to him, playing a handheld game as he waited for his sexual partner to wake up. Beating yet another level, Cartman looked up at Kyle's pale face. Noticing no change, he growled under his breath and turned back to the game. He had almost beat all thirty levels since Mole left, and he wasn't about to stop until Kyle woke from his deep sleep. Out of paranoia, he had locked the door, checking the windows around the front as well.

Nothing had been out of order.

No one had called.

Nothing happened, but the steady tick of the clock, the shallow breaths of Kyle, the steady clicks of the game buttons.

Cartman met the boss in his game, mashing buttons furiously. Kyle groaned and tossed his hand out, smacking the larger teenager in the head. Jumping in surprise, Cartman let out a yelp before realizing what had happened. Tossing the game system to the side, he turned around, kneeling next to Kyle.

"You okay?" he asked worriedly.

"Cartman?"

"Who the fuck else would it be? You _okay_?"

Kyle put a hand to his forehead, grimacing as the pain shot through his body. "Ugh, I think so..." he groaned. "Can I get some water? All I can taste is blood."

Cartman nodded, getting up to run to the kitchen and back, carrying a glass of water. Waiting until Kyle sat up, he handed the redhead the cup. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone hit me with a truck," Kyle answered, sipping the cup and swishing the water in his mouth. Spitting back into the cup, the red mingled with the water, drifting in lazy arcs to create a glass of pink-tinted water. "Sick, dude," he said, pushing the glass into Cartman's hands.

"So what the hell happened?"

Kyle looked at him in confusion. Suddenly, a light went on in his head and recognition dawned on his face. Chewing on his lip, he pulled the blanket up around him, getting comfortable. "The job went perfeclty," he answered.

"What the hell do you mean, perfectly?" Cartman demanded, motioning to the bruised, broken body Kyle inhabited. "You look like shit. Someone beat the hell out of you."

Kyle chuckled, shaking his head despite the pain that shot through his neck. "Yeah, that was a little excessive, but it worked."

"They would have killed you if Mole hadn't stepped in," Cartman snapped angrily.

Kyle sighed. "Lets eat breakfast," he said. "I'll talk to you about it then."

Fuming, Cartman stood up. He hated it when Kyle defied him, but he hated it more when the boy kept him in the dark. When Cartman asked questions, he wanted the answers. No matter how fucked up the answer was, he asked for a reason. Giving Kyle a dirty look, he took the glass and walked into the kitchen. Splashing the bloody water into the sink, he slammed the glass down on the counter, yanked open the cupboard, and pulled down two bowls.

As poor as the strange couple were, they could afford cereal as a staple in their house. Kyle hated anything kosher, and ate the most disgusting things sometimes. Mole had said several times that Kyle would eat himself sick of fast foods, but as of yet, it hadn't happened. Cartman poured two large bowls of Frosted Flakes, pouring equal amounts of milk in each. Had he become a housewife in the years since school? No, but he had learned how to cook and how to like it. And, given the situation, he figured it was proper to dote on Kyle. A little.

Returning to the living room, he set the bowl in Kyle's lap and plopped down on the floor. "Eat," he ordered. Digging his own spoon into the bowl of cereal, Cartman shoveled it into his mouth, using his chewing as a distraction. As of the moment, he didn't feel like speaking to the redhead before him, though he didn't feel like leaving him alone in his current state.

Kyle seemed to understand the sentiment, for he simply ate in silence, taking small bites as he watched Cartman. By the time Cartman finished his bowl, Kyle had hardly eaten a dent into his own bowl. As Cartman eagerly looked for more, Kyle handed him the bowl. "I'm not hungry," he said briskly.

Taking it, Cartman put the spoon in his mouth. "Pansy," he grumbled around the mouthful of food. His eyes watched Kyle closely, wondering when the story would start, and when he could tell him to shut up.

The phone rang.

Cracking the silence, it sent a shiver down Cartman's spine. Getting to his feet, he crossed the room, picking the phone up on the third ring. Kyle shot him a worried look, but he rolled his eyes in response. "Hello?" he asked.

"Sheet, Cartman," Mole hissed. "Takes you long eenough to answer ze phone."

Irritated, the portly brunette almost hung up the phone. Somehow he had the feeling it was important, or the dirty little mercenary would have simply avoided contact, lurking in the shadows. "What do you want, you piece of shit?"

"Eets not safe," he answered breathlessly. "You and Kyle need to leave ze house."

Cartman glared at Kyle, making a mental note to beat the shit out of him the very next chance he had. "What the hell do you mean?" he demanded.

"Gregory, ze fucking beetch, 'e set us up."

"Set _us_ up? You mean set _you_ up. You fucking bastard, I knew this would happen. If I see you one more time, I'm gonna rip off your ballsack and feed it to you with your goddamn shovel!"

Mole blew smoke out, the crackling against the receiver irritating Cartman's ears. "I try to warn you, and zhis ees what I get." Grinding his teeth, Mole hit the receive against something hard several times. "Do you not understand me? Zhis is real life, with real consequences you take to ze grave! Are you going to fuck up again?" he snarled angrily.

Cartman tightened his grip on the phone, hearing the plastic creak beneath his fingers. "How do I even trust you? You're a fucking cancer."

Sighing heavily, Mole tried to explain himself. "Cartman, zhis ees _Gregory of motzherfucking Yardale_ we are talking about. Ze leetle beetch _crossed_ me. Crossed _Kyle_. 'E made sure to give ze wrong password, made sure to tell ze men where to go to cut Kyle off." Taking a pause, no doubt inhaling deeply on his permanent cigarette, Mole continued. "Zhey are staking 'im out, Cartman. Zhey know where 'e lives and zey wont hesitate to kill him."

The intake of breath was all Mole needed to know that somewhere, deep inside his fatty rolls and pissed off demeanor, Cartman was genuinely worried about something.

"Zhen you will leave?" Mole asked.

"Goddamnit, yes," he snapped, dropping the phone onto the reciever.

Kyle looked up, pulling the blanket closer. "Something _wrong_?" he asked curiously, a strange tone in his voice.

"Yeah, there's something _wrong_," he snapped. "Your goddamn French dick friend says we have to leave."

"No we don't," Kyle said, frowning.

Gritting his teeth, Cartman motioned to the phone. "Do either of you assholes mind telling me what's going on here?" he demanded.

A long pause filled the room, but Kyle didn't appear distressed in any other way than his physical pains. He sat simply on the couch, surrounded by blankets and pillows, looking every bit the spoiled poodle. The content, smug grin on his face only served to infuriate his roommate more, until finally, in a fit of anger, Cartman stormed across the room.

"What's so funny, _Jew_?" he asked.

Frowning, Kyle sighed. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

'Then tell me what's wrong! Tell me what's going on, because I don't feel like leaving this house. I paid for it, its mine."

"We don't have to leave, Cartman," Kyle said. "It's _fine_. Everything's working out." Shifting on the couch, he patted the spot next to him. As Cartman sat, Kyle leaned against him, putting his head on the other's shoulder. "We set it up this way," he said.

Cartman put his arm around Kyle slowly, taking comfort in the human warmth despite the source. "Just tell me what you did," he said in exasperation.

Snuggling closer, Kyle smiled into Cartman's red shirt. "We set it up, Gregory and I."

Cartman started, confused for a moment. Kyle would _never_ betray someone - it wasn't who he was. "Wait, you mean you -"

Kyle nodded. "All of it. Gregory planted his own men in the operation." Kyle yawned, despite having slept for more than ten hours. "Mole.... he fell right into every trap we set."


	5. The Finale

**author's note ; **The final chapter. Do enjoy. It would make me rather happy if you reviewed this final chapter and let me know how you felt about the story. Thank you very much.

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_Rain drummed down the tin roof, setting the world ablaze in a natural musical. Pouring down the glass windows surrounding them, obscuring the outside world in a fishbowl panoramic. Watching the city lights blur, the sickly redhead turned towards his companion of the night. Taller, with slicked-back blonde hair, his companion had an air of dignity about him. Crystal clear blue eyes watched every move with precision, cataloging every moment for future reference. In his particular line of work, danger stemmed from every moment he didn't pay attention, and even from those he did._

_Clearing his throat, the man stepped beside Kyle, watching the rain droplets' descent on the darkened city, lit only by human made fireflies. "This will be very dangerous," he said offhandedly._

_Kyle nodded his response._

"_Lives may be lost. _Your_ life may be lost."_

"_It's a chance I have to take."_

"_Do you remember why you're doing this?" Gregory of Yardale asked curiously, staring sideways at the new-found mercenary._

_Kyle hesitated, his mouth dry, palms sweaty. Gritting his teeth, he nodded. "Yes."_

"_Repeat it to me," Gregory insisted._

"_No," Kyle protested hesitantly. "Its... its so wrong."_

_Gregory put his hand on Kyle's shoulder. "You benefit, I benefit. I don't see what is so wrong about that."_

_Kyle stiffened at the touch. "Mole is my friend."_

"_Mole used you."_

"_No, he had his reasons," Kyle said quickly._

"_Kyle, you can hack into any security network," Gregory wheedled. "You're useful, and he used that to the best of his extent."_

_For a moment, Kyle thought about it. Gaining everything, but losing a friend. It sounded perfect in the long run, and perhaps he and Cartman would be happy afterward. Cartman would finally proclaim his undying love, and Kyle would finally feel the compassion behind those nights spent up late._ _On the other hand, Mole, who had been a driving force in his own sexuality for so long, would be gone for good. _

_Gregory moved away from the window, piling papers. "It's a simple task. You need only to input the password. When you leave the compound, my men will attack you. Mole will play the valiant hero, crashing into the fray and destroying my men." His voice grew passionate as he spoke, as if remembering something long forgotten. A smile on his face, he scribbled the final words on a check. "When he brings you to Cartman's, as he undoubtedly will in his infinite good nature, the final straws will be laid. He will discover the betrayal, and he will come to me."_

_Kyle felt his stomach lurch. He reminded himself of the greater good, of his life with Cartman. Closing his eyes, he sighed. "Easy," he said dryly._

..~..

Cartman stared, open-mouthed, at the red-head. After a long moment, he closed his mouth, swallowing the words he was about to say. Kyle's blatant betrayal of a friend gave him chills. It was something to be expected of Cartman, not the innocent, mild mannered, friendly Jew everyone had grown to love so much. Even Cartman, in a fractional way, had grown to love Kyle. Admitting it would be another step into his deep, dark psyche that he didn't care to explore. After finding out his mother's secrets, there were precious few things he wanted to know about. His childhood had been a lie. He didn't want to make his sexuality a lie, too.

"Cartman? Are you okay?" Kyle asked, peering up at Eric's face.

Scoffing, Cartman blew air in Kyle's face. "I'm fine," he said. "You really did that?"

Kyle shrugged. "Is it really important?" he asked.

Cartman frowned. "Yes, its that goddamn important," he snapped, unable to put into words what made it so important to him.

"Are you upset?" Kyle asked cautiously, eyebrows knit into concern. "We can move away now. We can go wherever you want. He wrote me a blank check, Eric. _Blank_." He pulled the check from his pocket, waving it in front of the other's face. "_Blank._" Pressing his nose to Cartman's, he grinned. "_Casa Bonita_, or even the real thing. We can go to Mexico, China, Russia, Spain... The possibilities are -"

"You don't feel any _remorse_?" Cartman interrupted.

Kyle flinched, pulling away and looking down. After a moment, he shrugged slowly. "Sure I do. I will every day for the rest of my life. But I don't want to be reminded of it. If I tell myself what Gregory said, I'll eventually believe it. So what's wrong with me being happy right now?"

Cartman got up, feeling for the first time the stirring of emotion for the Jewish boy on the couch. Taking him by the hand, he helped him stand. "We shouldn't stay here, then," he said. "If any of your hair brained plan goes wrong, Mole will be on us like flies on shit."

Kyle wobbled slightly, frowning at Eric. "It wont go wrong," he assured. "Gregory knows him _intimately_. He can predict every move Mole makes. So far, he's been right every time."

Cartman sighed, wrapping his arms protectively around the frail Jewish boy. "You're too trusting," he said quietly.

Kyle inhaled sharply, wincing. "You're .... crushing me... you fatass," he puffed. Cartman let him go, scowling. "Why are _you_ so worried?"

"Because I lo-"

The phone rang.

Talk about saved by the bell.

Cartman picked it off the table, placing it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Where ees Kyle?" the French accent demanded.

"He's right here. Where are you?"

"I'm een Gregory's shit-hole," Mole replied sarcastically. "Where ze fuck do you _tzhink _I am?"

"I'm not a mind reader, for Christ's sake. Just answer the question," Cartman said, his unease transferred into his shaky voice.

"Don't sound so worried. I'm taking care of eet. Gregory has not left his fancy penthouse," Mole said. A click in the background caught Cartman's attention, and a prolonged squeak make him almost ask where the Mercenary was, _exactly_. Mole, however, coughed, clearing his throat of whatever cigarette he just consumed. "I'll call you when eet ees over," he said, clicking the phone shut.

Cartman looked at Kyle, setting the phone down on the table. "He's at Gregory's," he said.

Kyle nodded. "That's the plan," he said, limping across the room. He grabbed his laptop bag, hitching it over his un-bruised shoulder. "If we're still going, this is all I need."

Cartman seemed suddenly reluctant. "Uh, yeah. I'm gonna get a few things." He tried to walk to the bedroom, but Kyle positioned himself between the man and his goal. "Move, Kyle, I need to grab something."

"No, everything we have here can be replaced."

Cartman paused, contemplating the honesty of the statement. Then he shook his head. "Not this," he answered, moving past Kyle. Once in the bedroom, he rummaged through dresser drawers for the one thing that couldn't be replaced. Pulling the tissue-paper-wrapped item out, he held it in the palm of his hand. Walking back out of the bedroom, he looked at Kyle. "Now we can leave."

"What did you grab?" Kyle asked suspiciously.

"The limited-edition pin we got from the movie premier."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "You're always thinking about money."

"No, I'm not," Cartman protested. "You're the Jew, you're thinking about money. This is _mine_, it means more than money."

Pushing Cartman playfully, Kyle scoffed. "You're ridiculous."

Cartman pulled Kyle out the door, grabbing the keys as he went. "The truck is parked around back. We'll have to stop for gas, though."

Walking around the back, the pair got into the rusty, beat down truck. Cartman started the truck, rumbling out of the alley. He jerked to a stop, shifting back to first. He had a hard time learning a stick shift, but it was the only vehicle he could find. The vehicle lurched as he missed the gas, jumping onto the road. "Sorry," he apologized, watching Kyle wince in pain.

"Its alright," Kyle said, buckling himself in. "Grab a burger for me or something. I'm completely _famished_."

Cartman pulled into the gas station, parking on the outside and jumping out. "Yeah. It'll be a minute."

Kyle watched as Cartman moved around the truck, diligently checking the tires. Since getting the vehicle, he spent quite a bit of time making sure it would get him from A to B in one piece. Popping open the glove box, Kyle rummaged through papers and old McDonald's napkins, finding a pen buried at the back. They always were. Setting his laptop bag across his knees, he set a piece of paper on top. Scribbling, he began writing a list of the things he needed to do. At the beginning was _Connect to internet,_ followed closely by _Find airfare to Mexico._ He wasn't sure if Mexico was the place for them, but they could always check. First, they'd have to cash the check.

Cartman spun the gas cap back on, closing the door. He tapped on the window as he walked by, disappearing into the convenience store. Kyle stared after him, timing his companion. After a minute passed, he looked down at the sheet of paper, mind wracking itself to find another item. As he put the pen to the paper, his phone rang.

Blood running cold, he fumbled to get the phone from his pocket, checking the caller. _Mole._ Gulping, he flipped his phone open. "Hello? Mole?" he asked quietly, mouth dry.

A scoff on the other end of the phone did nothing to tell him the identity of the caller.

"Mole, if this is you, its not funny."

A muffled voice in he background had him straining to hear the words.

"Hello? I'm not stupid, I have caller ID. Who is this?"

Silence. Kyle sighed, about to say something again, when he heard a thick grunt, followed by a gasp of pain over the phone. "_Sheet_, cocksucker!" Mole's gruff voice snarled under his breath.

"Hello?" Kyle felt sick, suddenly realizing the extent of his betrayal.

"Kyle, eets not safe-"

The phone went dead.

Startled and shaken, Kyle held the phone to his ear without thought, as if he could hear or see the events across the wires. He didn't notice Cartman leaving the store, didn't notice as he got into the truck, didn't notice the concerned questions his way. When Cartman touched him on the arm, Kyle yelped, dropping the phone.

"Dude, Kyle, you okay?"

"Y...yeah."

"Who called?"

"Wrong number," Kyle said dully.

Between the seats, the phone rang again. Kyle shied away from it, while Cartman pushed his hand between the cushions to grab the phone. "It's Mole..." he said in irritation. After a moment's pause, he hit _answer._

"Hello, Kyle?" Gregory's smooth voice came over the receiver, able to charm birds from their nests and take candy effortlessly from babies.

"This is Eric."

"Well, either way, good fellow. It has been done. You're free to go your way, but _do_ cash that check soon," Gregory said, a cheer in his voice that Cartman couldn't place. "Thank Kyle for his help, and do wish him a speedy recovery. Farewell, Eric Cartman of South Park. It was a pleasure working with the both of you."

Closing the phone, Cartman looked at Kyle.

"What did he say?" the red-head asked.

"It's done," Cartman answered.

"Then Mole is dead, and we're free to do anything?"

"That's what Gregory said."

Kyle slid the piece of paper to Cartman. "Lets stop at a coffee shop. After that, I was thinking Palomas, Mexico."

Putting the truck in gear, Cartman nodded.

"Anywhere but here."


End file.
